


The Feeling of Simply Being Loved

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: All of the Possibilities: A Collection of One-Shots [8]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anxiety, F/M, Insomnia, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: [Outtake from A Thin Red Line] In a quiet moment after Rukia has gone to save her friend, Hisana and Byakuya contemplate the next move.





	The Feeling of Simply Being Loved

His hair, long and damp, sticks to the milky expanse of his chest. Hisana rests her chin on the top of her hand. Her hand, in turn, splays across his abdomen, also hard and cut from hours of training.

_He's not sleeping_, Hisana observes internally as her gaze deepens.

She amuses in his stillness; it fascinates her.

Secretly, she wonders if he is this still in battle. It would be a tantalizing thing to see—the contrast between the frantic and kinetic movements of a battlefield and the Kuchiki stillness. How many opponents had he met on the bloodied fields who searched his face in the hopes of discerning his next move, only to find _nothing_? How disappointing. Must there be fear in not _knowing_ what to do, not knowing which step comes next? Is it akin to the fear that a dancer feels when the music stops unexpectedly, and she is left searching for her next move? Or, is it more like when you're walking, and, just as you take your next step, unexpectedly, the ground rips out from under you, and your heart plummets to your belly, and your lungs gasp for the next breath?

"You are worried," he observes, voice as soft as the sound crushed velvet makes when you run your hand over it.

Her lips curve up upon glimpsing the silver glint of moonlight catching in his heavily lidded gaze.

"Not worried," she corrects as she nuzzles against his chest, taking in the sweet smell of their lovemaking still lingering in the sticky autumn air. "Just wondering."

Reflexively, he runs his fingers through her dark tresses. They are longer than he remembers, extending beyond his lazy reach. "What thought, then, occupies my lady?"

She tilts her head up, cheek still pressed against the heat of his chest. A shy, lopsided smile thins a side of her mouth. "Flights of fancy, milord. Nothing more."

His features soften as he watches her. Her skin is the color of liquid silver under the moon's radiance. She looks holy in that light, reminding him of why he has always preferred her in the colors of twilight.

Hisana's eyes catch his stare, and she lifts her brow. She can't help it, but over the past few weeks the same private observation keeps nagging at her. Their mode of communication has become increasingly _physical_.

At first, she thought it was a function of the limits placed on their time together. They simply had to consolidate things to fit everything in all at once. But, now, after the Second released her from their marathon meetings, she wonders if her initial assumption had been proven false.

She wonders if her husband is having trouble coping with or processing the sheer amount of stress that has been heaped on him and his unit.

His hours spent at the Sixth seemingly lap the days, and, if the number and freshness of his bruises are any indicator, smart money would be on him training in what little free time he might have at his disposal.

"The boys?" he inquires, incorrectly guessing at her thoughts.

"They are well," she says, perfunctorily. She says the words quickly; the vowels and consonants collide midair, scrambling together. 

A superstitious part of her—a part of her that she thinks he wouldn't quite understand—does not want to tempt the fates. To flaunt her sons' wellbeing might draw an evil eye. With that thought, she confronts the stark truth that her family is more fragile than she wants to admit. It grows. But, growth means only _more chances _for heartache; it means only _more _ways things can go awry, and these times are already so awry.

She exhales a troubled breath and cuddles closer, pressing her cheek fast against his chest.

He must sense her apprehension for he shifts his weight against her. 

She feels the extension and release of muscles. She also feels their fibers tense before going stiff beneath her cheek. The next breath he draws is quick, but it is ragged.

"I see," he murmurs. Chasing the echoes of voice as it fills his chest, she almost misses the sweet gentleness of his fingers nervously twining through her hair. 

His strokes are long as he follows the length of her tresses. So long. The pale shimmer of his star-kissed digits drips with the inkiness of her locks. 

_'__She hides at inconvenient times_,' he thinks to himself, wondering if he really knows where her fault lines lay.

He thought he knew them so well. But, then again, they are there, lying wide awake in bed in the dead of night before. Before now. Before Aizen. Before the taking. 

"Rukia," she murmurs. The warmth of her breath ghosting across his chest pulls his attention before he registers the sound of her voice. Whatever thought grips her, she spares him the details. Byakuya, however, has a very active imagination. An imagination that does not hesitate to fill in the empty spaces.

"I know," he responds, lips brushing the top of her head. He inhales a deep breath.

Her scent—almonds and white plum—pulls deep into his lungs, and he commits her fragrance to memory. Indeed, he tries to remember everything about that specific moment. From the way her body molds around him to the weight of her head against his chest. These are the moments he wants to keep locked away, even if he turns into vapor.

Hisana lifts her head and catches his gaze. "Go after her," she says, words sprawling heavy against his chest. "Whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes," he echoes, like a blind devotee worshiping at the feet of a god. The words feel good in his mouth. They sound even better in his ears. For a moment, he feels as if he has control. His agency bubbles forth in his chest, rising until he has to swallow it down.

He knows he will do whatever it takes to protect his sister. It is there, a rugged feeling with edges as sharp and pointed as glass. Should any foe be foolish enough to cross Rukia when he is near, he would end them without another thought. She is family, and, therefore, she is part of him, of his pride.

Thoughtlessly, he takes his wife's hand in his and presses small kisses across her knuckles. Her skin is soft as silk, and it feels intoxicating against his lips, cracked and rough. She does not pull away. Instead, Hisana kisses the line of his jaw until he stops. His whole world ceases to spin. The shade of nightfall pulls around them, until his only focus is on her.

Everything else simply falls away.


End file.
